Whiskey Sour
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Mark/Addison. Addison deals with the aftermath of Derek's leaving. Mark is there to deliver some much needed advice and reason. Angsty. Oneshot.


You thought it was the ultimate humiliation, but it appears that life can, in fact, always get worse

You thought it was the ultimate humiliation, but it appears that life can, in fact, always get worse.

Standing outside in the rain, shivering in shorts and a beat-up T-shirt, watching your clothes get watermarked by rain and soaked through with mud – that seemed like the ultimate humiliation. It was worse when you thought of the neighbours having a field day, watching the perfect couple having a bust-up in the front yard like a bunch of redneck trailer trash; that, too, was a wonderful thought, but you stood your ground and refused to scream, and in a moment, he let you back in.

You thought at that point he would rub down your soaked arms; wrap a towel around your shoulders – he always cracked under the pressure of your tears. But this time, he refused to meet your eyes – refused to meet your hands, stretching out to touch him, the droplets of water catching the light from the expensive fixture you'd chosen from an antique store not a year earlier.

And then he left.

But you knew he'd be back – he's Derek, after all. He can never leave things unfinished, and why would he want to? He knows what he has with you – you are the perfect match for him.

This time, though, he didn't stick around to see if that was true. There are only so many times that you can believe you're the perfect couple, but not see it reflected in your lives. There are only so many times that you can sit side by side on the couch and read different sections of the paper, the words of the day unspoken between you because neither of you know the language.

And so, that night, you stood in your damp clothes, sneezing a little and hating the fact that your bare feet were freezing on the ceramic tile, and waited at the door for him to come home.

Really, now. What was so different about this time, when this was your position every night for a year?

/

It hurt you, but he knew it anyway and without you even having to say anything into the phone, he was over to the brownstone in five minutes.

He takes a wet, hot washcloth and wipes your snotty, teary face, as gently as he would wipe a five-year-old's face, and helps you change your damp clothes, wrapping a Scottish throw around your shoulders and giving you a glass of whiskey. You choke a little – you even spit a little up onto your shirt (classy, classy), but you get it down and it clears your head enough for you to start swearing.

"He's fucking gone."

Mark says nothing.

"He's GONE. He left. The bastard left me."

Still, nothing. He starts to gather up your wet clothes from the living room floor, but you grab his arm and he drops them, turning his eyes to look into yours.

"He's not supposed to leave," you announce. "He's not MAN enough to leave. And I need him – who else is going to clean out the gutters!" You fling an arm up towards the roof and knock the glass of whiskey, refilled for the third time, slightly to the side. Mark, still saying nothing, simply moves it back out of your reach.

You're a mess. Your eyes are streaming, your nose is running, and you're balled up on the couch, your red hair starting to wave and frizz in the humidity. But he takes that warm washcloth and wipes your face again, and then you suddenly start to cry.

"He's not supposed to go. He was always there. I did it wrong, I know, this is my fault. I shouldn't have done it, but he wouldn't even let me explain, and I just . . . he needed to know, how desperate I was – how I hated myself even when I hated him, you know?"

You sniffle again, knowing that there's snot on your face and that if you were Mark, you'd turn tail and run, but instead of going, he settles down beside you on the soft couch that Derek picked out of a furniture catalogue and wraps his warm arms around you. Only then, does he speak.

"Yeah, you're a bitch," he says. "You cheated on him and I cheated on him, and we're assholes, the two of us. But he's not innocent in this, Addison. He left because he can't deal with the fact that this is his fault, too. It always takes two."

"Fuck that." You suddenly hurl the whiskey glass across the room and it shatters against the fireplace. "I put up with so much, for so long. He does not get to be the clean one here. He's just as covered in shit as I am."

And Mark pulls you closer, dropping a kiss on your head and letting you cry and snot all over his expensive blue shirt (a Christmas present from you, two years ago). And despite the fact that you're at your most disgusting – your least put-together; he doesn't care. He sits with you until you start heaving and hiccupping from a combination of the whiskey and the tears, and then has the foresight to move the pity party to the bathroom.

Hours pass. You throw up until there's nothing left, and then throw up some more. He keeps trying to get you to drink, with minimal results. He knows better than to stay tonight, but he doesn't feel like he can leave you alone.

"Why isn't Derek here?" You moan at 3 am, clutching a monogrammed towel in your hands. There's a small pile of washcloths on the side of the sink and Mark continues to flush them in warm water, wiping your face so much that he fears he's going to dry your skin out. But you keep clinging, those long legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and eventually it all blurs into a long montage of vomit, tears and ranting.

A saner man would have probably left. He holds you until you fall asleep in his arms on the bathroom floor, a shaft of weak sunlight illuminating your hair.

/

The next morning, he's drinking coffee in the kitchen and reading the newspaper when you come down the stairs. It's as if last night never happened – he's got breakfast warm on the stove and you're showered and dressed casually in expensive loungewear, your hair carefully washed and pulled into a proper ponytail.

"Hey."

"Hey." He pulls a chair out for you with his foot, and you grin slightly as you sit down. He pushes the coffeepot towards you, and you drink deeply, feeling your stomach stir, but determined to keep down whatever must be left after last night.

"Look –"

"Addison. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, okay?"

It's all he has to say. You shut your mouth, but feel the tears come up in your eyes anyway, and he peers at you over the reading glasses he's recently had to affect. Minute surgical detail will do that to your eyes.

"Listen. He's just as much at fault. There's no argument here, okay?"

"Okay."

But you both know that even though the morning's idyllic, it's lacking, and when you drop your head on your hands, he's there to massage your shoulders.

It's not that the next four months make up for it. You're ill-suited and you fight constantly. Many whiskey glasses are broken.

But at least he's there when Derek never bothered to be.


End file.
